


Taking Care of You

by messedupstargazer



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: I've seen so many where the sickness is not accurately portrayed, M/M, Pneumonia, Sickfic, Slight Medical Stuff, So I tried my best to keep it medically accurate, The Hobbit References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-27
Updated: 2016-09-27
Packaged: 2018-08-18 05:27:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8150641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/messedupstargazer/pseuds/messedupstargazer
Summary: Illya Kuryakin was not a fool.  He knew this.  And he knew that Napoleon knew this.  So why was Napoleon treating him like a fool?
Napoleon is sick and won't admit it.  Illya is a good boyfriend.





	

Illya Kuryakin was not a fool. He knew this. And he knew that Napoleon knew this. So why was Napoleon treating him like a fool?

Napoleon and Illya had just come home from a finished operation in Sussex, England. The weather had been cold, even for March. Illya, as a Russian, held no problem with this. Russia had dropped to negative forty just twenty years ago. Illya knew how to survive the cold. Napoleon obviously didn’t. Napoleon was often bundled up in three or four layers and his nose was red more often than not. When they returned to their home in New York City, Napoleon still shivered, even though the weather had considerably improved towards Napoleon's taste. Napoleon had stayed bundled up in two sweaters, even with the heat on. Napoleon was under a thick duvet in a ball, sitting on the couch, coughing into his arm.

“I'm not sick.” Napoleon said when he realized Illya was staring, and his own voice betrayed him. It was little more than a croak.

“Of course not, Cowboy.” Illya smirked and walked to his boyfriend. He placed a hand on Napoleon's forehead and pulled away suddenly. “You're burning up.”

“I'm fine.” Napoleon insisted. “Just need some tea for my throat.”

Illya rolled his eyes. “I'm calling Waverly and telling him you're sick.”

“I can do my work, Peril.” Napoleon snapped, then descended into a coughing fit.

“Napoleosha, please.” Illya knelt to his boyfriend’s level when he finally calmed. “If you got out now and die, I'll never forgive me.”

Napoleon looked into Illya's eyes, and Illya saw the fever glaze over his lover’s face along with the dark circles. Napoleon was certainly sick, no matter what he said.

“Fine.” Napoleon sighed and stumbled into their bed.

Illya called Waverly, regaling that Napoleon had caught the flu and wouldn’t be able to come in, and nor would he. Since Waverly understood that Illya and Napoleon would never work up to standards when apart like this, he let Illya go to take care of him. His other agents would suffice.

Illya then made some soup for his boyfriend. While Illya was no Napoleon, who’s cooking skills were world-renowned (according to Napoleon); he could make some decent food. Tomato soup, something he knew Napoleon enjoyed, was soon ready. He ladled it into a bowl and brought it to Napoleon, once again trying to cough his lungs out. Illya placed the soup in front of him and Napoleon smiled gently and Illya used the lowering of his guard to stick the thermometer into his mouth. Napoleon pouted at him, but thankfully didn’t spit it out. When Illya pulled it out, he frowned.

“39.5.” Illya muttered. “You are very sick, Cowboy.”

“English please.” Napoleon muttered.

He stayed silent for a moment, obviously waiting for Illya to do the conversion in his head.

“103.1.” Illya answered. “You Americans need to convert to metric. Everyone else did.”

Napoleon huffed. “Americans are stubborn like that.”

“Eat your soup.” Illya said and held the spoon to Napoleon. Napoleon held out a shaky hand and Illya huffed, knowing if Napoleon tried taking it the soup would spill everywhere. Napoleon then thrust his hand back under the duvet with a frown and Illya spooned the soup into Napoleon's mouth.

“I'm perfectly independent.” Napoleon said in between spoonfuls.

“You are.” Illya agreed as he spooned the last bits of soup into Napoleon's mouth.

Once the soup was finished, Illya left Napoleon to sleep with a kiss to his hair. For politeness, Illya didn’t say anything about the sweat that had accumulated there. 

Napoleon slept for a long time. Illya cleaned the apartment, cooked his own food, got Napoleon a glass of water, did the dishes from his lunch, and read for hours before Napoleon began to stir. Napoleon coughed as if he couldn’t breathe, and Illya brought the water to his lips to try and quell the cough. Napoleon was able to drink small sips but his breathe did not return. Illya brought Napoleon to his chest as Napoleon coughed up green phlegm. Worry spread like ice through Illya's veins. That was not a good sign.

“How long have you been coughing?” Illya asked.

“I don’t know, like a minute?” Napoleon answered weakly.

“Days, cowboy, how many days?” Illya pressed.

“Since before the shootout.” Napoleon admitted, blushing.

Illya groaned. The shootout that had left Napoleon and Illya barely escaping and their vehicle damaged had been two days before they had finally returned home.

“It’s been three days and you let the cough go?” Illya growled. “Napoleosha, how could you be so stupid? This isn't just the flu.”

“I'm fine.” Napoleon insisted.

“No you are not.” Illya pressed. “Get some rest, Cowboy." Napoleon huffed but settled down to get some sleep. Illya then contacted the physician that UNCLE kept on hand for their agents. Illya related the symptoms to the doctor who made a tsk sound.

“Sounds like Mister Solo has contracted pneumonia.” The doctor sighed. “Now, if you’ve caught it early enough, a man with a strong immune system will not be very affected. If you haven't, and it already has taken hold, then I will need to prescribe him antibiotics and perhaps more.”

“How will I know whether it took hold?” Illya asked.

“Confusion, nausea, shortness of breath, and high fever.” The doctor answered.

“Thank you, doctor.” Illya said. “I will call if any of those symptoms persist.”

Napoleon's quiet moaning had him hanging up the phone and walking to his room.

Napoleon was thrashing and had kicked off the duvet, chest heaving as if he were running from shooters once more.

“Cowboy,” Illya tried, “Wake up. Wake up, Cowboy.”

Napoleon whimpered and coughed feebly. Illya shook him slightly, which normally woke the man. Napoleon stayed asleep. Illya shook him harder.

“Napoleosha, wake up, please.” Illya commanded.

Napoleon gasped, coughed because his lungs couldn’t handle the oxygen and choked himself awake. He coughed hard and couldn’t sip at the water Illya held out for a little while. Once his lungs had finally calmed down, Illya stared at him in worry.

“I'm fine, Peril.” Napoleon panted.

“What was the dream about?” Illya asked softly.

“I don’t remember.” Napoleon sighed, exhausted. “Honestly, I don’t.”

Illya nodded. Napoleon then curled up to Illya and Illya ran his hands through Napoleon's hair.

“What did the doctor say?” Napoleon asked, almost subdued.

“You heard?” Illya asked.

“No.” Napoleon's lips twitched at a smile. “But I know you.”

“You have pneumonia.” Illya answered. “Doctor say it may take hold and then we have problem.”

Napoleon hummed. “I'll be fine, Peril. I've beaten worse than a silly old bug.”

Illya rolled his eyes.

They lapsed into silence. Napoleon fell asleep but this time was untouched by fever dreams and Illya just waited. He couldn’t move, Napoleon needed sleep and if he wasn’t snuggling with Illya he would most certainly wake, so he stayed and played chess in his head. While he would've liked to play with his chess set in his own hands, this settles his mind somewhat. Pneumonia was very serious in Russia. Many people died from it every year.

Illya then canceled that train of thought. But Illya refused that Napoleon would die. Illya was not going to lose him to some tiny bacteria. Napoleon was strong, and Illya would be strong for him.

For the most part of the first day, Napoleon slept. Illya had forced a little bit of toast and jam into him when he was awake, but he never stayed awake long. Illya had called the doctor, twice, to make sure that Napoleon wasn’t falling into a coma. The doctor had assured him each time that Napoleon was doing fine, he needed a lot of sleep so his body could fight off the infection. Illya forced himself to calm down after the second call. The doctor would get annoyed with constant calls, and getting upset would not help Napoleon at all.

Illya walked into their bedroom and sighed. Napoleon lay under a mound of blankets with only the top of his head peeking out. Illya kissed the black curls lightly and started doing paperwork he needed to catch up on. He needed to keep his mind and hands occupied.

The second day, Napoleon shifted often but never seemed to go into a nightmare. Napoleon must have kicked the blankets off and then whined for them back forty times in the few hours he’d been asleep. Illya stayed by his side the whole time.

Finally, Napoleon blinked his eyes open and he frowned. Illya grabbed the water he kept by the bedside table and put it to Napoleon's lips. Napoleon gulped at the water before falling into a coughing fit.

“Easy, now, Cowboy.” Illya whispered. “Small sips.”

Napoleon tried again after the fit passed, and this time his lungs allowed him small sips of water.

“How are you feeling?” Illya asked.

“Like I'm going to be sick.” Napoleon gasped out. “Chest hurts.”

Illya clamped down on the fear building up in his stomach. Illya got the thermometer and slipped it under Napoleon's tongue. He waited impatiently and when it beeped, Illya all but ripped it from Napoleon's mouth.

“Ебать.” Illya muttered and reached for the phone.

“Mister Kuryakin, again.” The doctor sounded slightly annoyed, but willing to listen.

“Solo’s fever has risen 40 degrees.” Illya said, unsuccessfully trying to keep the panic out of his voice. “He feels nauseous and chest hurts.”

“I’ll be right there.” The doctor promised and hung up.

Illya fretted, trying to run a hand through Napoleon's hair but it was slicked down with sweat. Illya wet a washcloth and draped it over Napoleon's forehead. Napoleon whimpered, his eyes fluttering.

“I'm sorry, Cowboy, you must cool down.” Illya hissed.

Napoleon's glassy eyes met his and Illya turned off his emotions as best as he could. Napoleon needed someone strong, and he couldn’t melt down. Until the doctor said he was going to be fine, Illya needed to be perfectly calm.

The doctor arrived soon after.

“Mr. Solo?” The doctor asked. “Are you awake?”

Napoleon hummed an affirmative.

“Do you remember me?” The doctor continued. “My name is Doctor Ross.”

Napoleon just coughed weakly.

“The pneumonia has taken hold.” Ross frowned. “I'm going to set up an IV, with antibiotics, and as much as Mr. Solo will not enjoy it, you mustn’t let him have so many blankets anymore. When his fever has broken, then he may have them back.”

Illya nodded. He watched as Ross snatched the blankets away from Napoleon, causing a low whine to escape from Napoleon's lips. Ross moved mechanically to set up the IV and placed wet rags on Napoleon's under arms, under his neck, and rewet the cloth on his forehead. Napoleon whimpered and Ross ignored it. Illya was grateful for Ross’s professionality. Napoleon hated people seeing him when he was sick, hated it even more when people fussed over him.

“I'll be checking in about every two hours.” Ross stated. “Keep him calm, and let him rest. Get him to eat if you can. Unfortunately, there is little else we can do. We just have to let this run its course.”

Illya nodded curtly.

“He’s a strong young man.” Ross noted. “His immune system is strong. He’ll be fine.”

Illya nodded again.

Ross clapped him on the arm and left, leaving some pills for Napoleon to take later, along with a note.

i/Give these to Mr. Solo when he wakes up. I've also left a couple sedatives for you, in case you feel you're losing control. There is no shame in that, simply take one and allow it to help you calm down. Although, please make sure there’s food in your stomach first./i

Illya swallowed hard. It was no secret in his file of his psychotic episodes, but he had always dealt with it alone. The KGB psychiatrists had only cared about if Illya could do his job well. Since he always could, that was all they ever asked about. It seemed Waverly picked people who were much more helpful.

“Illya…” Napoleon's voice brought him out of his thoughts.

Illya grabbed the required number of pills and sat down on the bed. Illya raised what was left of the toast to Napoleon's lips but Napoleon fought him.

“Illya…” Napoleon moaned.

“I'm here, Napoleosha.” Illya whispered, abandoning the toast.

“I'm cold.” Napoleon breathed.

“Take these, Cowboy, they help with cold.” Illya said and got the pills into Napoleon's mouth. He swallowed them after a little help from Illya with the water.

Napoleon flopped down once he’d swallowed the pills.

“What's going on?” Napoleon slurred.

“You're sick.” Illya replied simply. “I'm taking care of you.”

“You sound so Russian.” Napoleon coughed.

Illya knew his accent thickened when he got emotional but he didn’t realize how bad it had gotten.

“I am Russian.” Illya enunciated, trying his best to hide his accent.

Napoleon smiled weakly. “The Russian Red Peril.”

Illya smiled back and kissed his cheek.

“Go back to sleep, American Cowboy.” Illya whispered. “I'll still be here when you wake.”

Napoleon yawned and shifted. “Uncomfortable.”

“You won't be if asleep.” Illya pushed.

Napoleon huffed but settled. Illya’s stomach growled loudly. He couldn’t remember the last time he ate with the worry of Napoleon invading his every thought.

“I'll sleep if you eat.” Napoleon offered.

Illya chuckled, giving Napoleon a half-smile. Sick as he is, he still wants to take care of Illya.

“All right, Napoleosha.” Illya said. “I'll eat something. But you better be asleep soon.”

Napoleon snorted. Illya then set about making himself lunch or maybe dinner. He wasn’t sure. He got some food in his stomach, and a wave of fatigue swept over him. He decided since the doctor had not expressly forbidden it, and most everyone at UNCLE knew about their relationship, he could sleep next to Napoleon without worry. He climbed into bed and Napoleon immediately snuggled up against him. Illya drifted to the sound of Napoleon's wheezing and the feeling of an American spy on his chest.

Illya woke to Napoleon coughing up phlegm onto his chest. Hoping that was a good sign, Illya said nothing. Napoleon hadn't quite woken and would only be embarrassed from this so there was no need to tell him. Also, Illya was much better with things considered gross. Napoleon was rather snobbish. Illya cleaned himself up a bit and made himself some food. Doctor Ross had said that he needed food in his stomach in case he lost control and seeing Napoleon so weak and helpless was getting to him. Napoleon was always the strong one. Napoleon brought him out of his episodes when even Gaby couldn’t do that, Napoleon spent hours making him delicious food because he knew Illya never ate much on missions, Napoleon knew when to kiss him gently and when to pound him into the bedsheets. How Illya had survived without Napoleon for so long sometimes seemed a mystery to him. Napoleon made him happy in a way that no one had ever done before. He couldn’t lose that happiness.

The tea kettle whistling brought him out of his thoughts. He poured the boiling water into a cup and dipped in the tea bags. He waited for the tea to formulate and when it had, he brought it to Napoleon who looked awake and miserable.

“I bring tea.” Illya offered.

Illya helped Napoleon sit up and sip the tea. Napoleon whimpered in satisfaction.

“Feels good on my throat.” Napoleon whispered.

“Feeling better?” Illya asked.

“Little bit.” Napoleon replied. “Feel a little less like death.”

Illya smiled. “You still look as death.”

Napoleon rolled his eyes. “Like and as are not always interchangeable. I look like death. He looks like something. He feels as bad as a hit and run victim.”

Illya chuckled. Even as sick as he was, Napoleon never minded helping with his English.

“Does not change statement.” Illya whispered. “You talk better though. That good.”

Silence persisted for a little while, though it was not an uncomfortable one. Illya helped Napoleon sip at the tea until it was finished and then sat next to him.

“Read to me?” Napoleon asked.

Illya smiled and kissed his hair. “Of course. Which title?”

“Surprise me.” Napoleon murmured. “But have it in English. Can't figure out other languages to save my life right now.”

Illya nodded and got a title he had not seen in Napoleon's hands before. He returned with The Hobbit.

“When did you get this?” Illya asked.

“Waverly recommended it actually.” Napoleon answered. “He said the mythology would appeal to me and it would good for a plane ride read.”

“Ah, I shall read it now.” Illya announced.

Napoleon nodded and settled himself on Illya's shoulder.

“In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.”

Illya read for hours, Napoleon listening along intently. In that time, Doctor Ross came and checked a couple times, each time proclaiming Napoleon's fever had gone down slightly, the antibiotics were doing their job and helping Napoleon fight off the bacteria. Then Illya would go back to the book. About two thirds of the way through, Napoleon couldn’t fight it anymore and drifted off to sleep. Illya saved their place, as Napoleon would like to continue with the book and although he would never admit it, he also was enjoying it. It wasn’t Russian literature, but still had its merits.

Extracting himself from a sleeping Napoleon was a difficult task. Napoleon was an octopus, limbs wrapping around and suction cupping to the best heat source around. Once free, he made himself some food, his stomach revealing its hunger with a fiery passion. He had planned on making something for Napoleon but he supposed it could wait until Napoleon woke. Napoleon didn’t like eating cold food, unless it was meant to be cold like Watermelon Gazpacho.

He walked back over to Napoleon and just stood in the doorway. Napoleon really did look like death. His skin was pale and yet flushed in certain aspects, like rigor mortis pooling blood, IVs hooked up to his arm, just like at a hospital, and his chest looked stationary. Like a corpse. Even with the antibiotics, it still might not be enough to save him. Illya’s hand started to shake. His mind, fond of torturing him, started to show him images of a dead Napoleon. He could feel the episode coming on and this time Napoleon wouldn’t be able to calm him down.

i/I've also left a couple sedatives for you, in case you feel you're losing control./i

Illya downed the sedatives dry, hoping they would work soon. He couldn’t stand the thought of losing Napoleon. Of having to go back to Russia without him. Of having to return to his solitary life at the KGB. Napoleon held his freedom. With Napoleon, he could do anything. Go anywhere. If Napoleon asked, he would leave the KGB and stay in New York.

Suddenly, Illya felt the whole world slowing down. He looked at his hand and raising it felt like moving through cement. Illya stumbled over to the couch and collapsed onto it. His eyelid felt like lead so he couldn’t keep them open anymore. His mind after that simply- turned off.

“Mr. Kuryakin!” A voice was calling to him through thick fog. “Mr. Kuryakin! Wake up, man.”

Although he could hear and identify Dr. Ross, he couldn’t fight through the fog to come to full consciousness. He wasn’t sure why. The fog was thick and he soon found himself consumed by it.

The next time he woke up with a clear head, he had a portable oxygen mask over his face. Dr. Ross stood over him. He removed the mask easily.

“I'm very sorry, Mr. Kuryakin.” Dr. Ross said. “I'm afraid I didn’t specify the dosage on the sedatives. You were only supposed to take one at a time. I do apologize.”

“I feel fine.” Illya said. “Am I fine?”

“Oh yes, you'll be perfectly all right.” Dr. Ross said. “I got worried about reduced heart rate and breathing so I put on the mask.”

“Then all is well.” Illya dismissed. This wasn’t the first time he’d accidentally overdosed on a medication to try and help with his episodes and he doubted it would be the last.

Dr. Ross nodded. “Thank you. Mr. Solo is doing well, responding to the antibiotics and soon I do believe his fever will break.”

Illya nodded.

“He was still asleep when I arrived but he’s awake now if you wish to speak to him.” Dr. Ross said.

Illya nodded and walked, with a small bout of dizziness, into the room where Napoleon lay. Of course, Napoleon noticed immediately.

“Are you all right?” Napoleon asked, his voice sounding weak but firm.

“Ross says I'm fine.” Illya said.

“He said overdose on sedatives?” Napoleon asked. “What did you do?”

“I accidentally took too many.” Illya dismissed. “Napoleosha, I'm perfectly all right.”

“Are you sure?” Napoleon pressed.

“I'm sure, дорогой.” Illya assuaged. (darling)

Napoleon nodded, looking exhausted.

“Sleep, Napoleosha.” Illya kissed the side of his face. “I'll stay right here.”

Napoleon laid his head on Illya's chest, right over his heart. Illya said nothing and instead let the soothing beating of his heart sooth Napoleon to sleep.

The next two days passed without incident. Illya read, and once they finished the Hobbit, Illya read The Grapes of Wrath, one of Napoleon's favorite. Napoleon slept intermittingly and the wheezing in his chest subsided. After the ninth day of this sickness, Napoleon was allowed to have the IV removed.

“Thanks for not bringing me to the hospital.” Napoleon said, after Doctor Ross had left the apartment for the final time. Napoleon was supposed to check in every two days on the phone and he had an appointment in two weeks at Ross’s office.

“You hate them.” Illya shrugged.

“Yeah but I know you.” Napoleon said. “You tend to panic when I get hurt.”

“I don’t panic.” Illya huffed.

“The last time I got hurt you carried me for a mile before almost destroying the first aid pack in the car.” Napoleon said dryly. “I had a flesh wound in the arm.”

Illya blushed lightly as he remembered hearing Napoleon cry out and his instincts took over. Napoleon was his to take care of and he couldn’t let anything happen to him.

“You were not clear.” Illya dismissed. “Americans are never clear. Always saying unnecessary things.”

Napoleon chuckled. “You love me.”

Illya sighed and kissed Napoleon. “Never doubt it.”

“Since we’ve still got some time off,” Napoleon leered, “I can think of a few things I missed while I was sick.”

“Insatiable American.” Illya teased. “Capitalist decadent.”

“Yes, yes, I'm a terrible person, now come here.” Napoleon grabbed Illya’s tie and pulled him into bed.

**Author's Note:**

> Ебать- fuck
> 
> дорогой- darling


End file.
